back,
while the "bravos" of the School-house attest the pluckiest charge of
all that hard-fought day. Warner picks East up lame and half stunned,
and he hobbles back into goal conscious of having played the man.

And now the last minutes are come, and the School gather for their last
rush every boy of the hundred and twenty who has a run left in him.
Reckless of the defence of their own goal, on they come across the level
big-side ground, the ball well down amongst them straight for our goal,
like the column of the Old Guard up the slope at Waterloo. All former
charges have been child's play to this. Warner and Hedge have met them,
but still on they come. The bull-dogs rush in for the last time; they
are hurled over or carried back, striving hand, foot, and eyelids. Old
Brooke comes sweeping round the skirts of the play, and, turning short
round, picks out the very heart of the scrummage, and plunges in. It
wavers for a moment--he has the ball! No, it has passed him, and his
voice rings out clear over the advancing tide "Look out in goal." Crab
Jones catches it for a moment; but before he can kick, the rush is upon
him and passes over him; and he picks himself up behind them with his
straw in his mouth, a little dirtier, but as cool as ever.

The ball rolls slowly in behind the School-house goal not three yards in
front of a dozen of the biggest School players-up.

There stand the School-house praepostor, safest of goal-keepers, and Tom
Brown by his side, who has learned his trade by this time. Now is your
time, Tom. The blood of all the Browns is up, and the two rush in
together, and throw themselves on the ball, under the very feet of the
advancing column; the praepostor on his hands and knees arching his back,
and Tom all along on his face. Over them topple the leaders of the rush,
shooting over the back of the praepostor, but falling flat on Tom, and
knocking all the wind out of his small carcase. "Our ball," says the
praepostor, rising with his prize; "but get up there, there's a little
fellow under you." They are hauled and roll off him, and Tom is
discovered a motionless body.

Old Brooke picks him up. "Stand back, give him air," he says; and then
feeling his limbs, adds, "No bones broken. How do you feel, young un?"

"Hah-hah," gasps Tom as his wind comes back, "pretty well, thank
you--all right."

"Who is he?" says Brooke. "Oh, it's Brown; he's a new boy; I know him,"
says East, coming up.

"Well, he is